


Home, Again

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: American McGee's Alice
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of trauma, Character Study, Constructed Reality, Heavy references to Mental Illness/Questionable Sanity, Introspection, Loss of Innocence, Lost Childhood, Multi, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Reality Bending, References to Death of Canon Character(s), Relationship Study, Self-Acceptance, Self-Reflection, limited dialogue, post Madness Returns, questionable morals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25181983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Logically, there is much truth to the presence of Damage in this new territory, or at the very least Madness would not be falsely accused of having run of the place.  But Alice has made her peace with anything Damage might have touched, and Madness is so close an acquaintance that she leaves a light on every night, just in case it thinks to stop by for a late chat.
Relationships: Alice Liddell (American McGee's Alice) & Dormouse, Alice Liddell (American McGee's Alice) & Mad Hatter, Alice Liddell (American McGee's Alice) & March Hare, Carpenter/Alice Liddell (American McGee's Alice), Cheshire Cat & Alice Liddell (American McGee's Alice), Nan Sharpe & Alice Liddell (American McGee's Alice), Queen of Hearts & Alice Liddell (American McGee's Alice)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. It's Time for Tea!

**Author's Note:**

> Not being a video game player, I nonetheless stumbled upon American McGee's Alice about a year ago and fell in love instantly. I wrote this piece shortly thereafter and sat on it for months as a self-indulgent little tidbit. But a friend convinced me to put it out there, so here I am. Constructive criticism is welcome - just please be kind. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to American McGee's Alice - just playing in the fandom for the first time.
> 
> Updates will come every Friday.

A magnanimous person might presume the tea parties – that is to say, the complete absence of there _not_ being a tea party – is Hatter’s way of making amends. Hardly so. Hatter has always been mad, of course, but now Madness has taken up permanent residence in his head and there simply is no room – no room at all! – for a guest to have a place, even for a short time. Conversation follows the same track each day, yet with the childlike delight that it might be the first time Hatter has savored this thread of thought. Not to suggest there is only one thread to follow; rather, there are dozens. If he is in a particular mood, nearly a hundred threads of thought might weave throughout a conversation.

March has never been known to keep a thought to himself, but he does not so much add to whatever thread Hatter weaves as he makes a point to hack away at it with his own thought – or thoughts, however the mood might strike. It is often easier to let them batter or clatter or whatever than to try and restore order. Order, after all, abandoned the party years ago (no doubt utterly offended) and, tragically, hasn’t been seen since.

It is March’s physical incapability which, Alice remains convinced, is compensated with a boisterous tone at the tea table. He shall never regain full use of all four limbs – rather, respective use of one or the other is entirely dependent on the weather and the hour’s mood – and his right eye renders him half-blind. From the Vale waters, Alice fashions him a monocle of liquid glass and fine gold. She assures him such an article makes him look more dignified, most assuredly not a cripple, and such promises set his initial unease at bay. In fact, he defends it with a gentleman’s honor. When Hatter suggests it might be exactly two centimeters off the right side (to say, off the correct side which it, at present, is not), March upends the tea pot over his head and proclaims Hatter quite absent of _savior faire_. Hatter protests, with usual outrage, that he has never been to the fair and therefore cannot possibly be either absent from it or of it.

Dear little Dormy stays silent during these senseless debacles, but not by way of falling asleep into his teacup. Quite the sad contrary, Dormy sleeps very little these days. He is always up and about in the middle of the night. He calls for Alice from his little bed of cotton and shredded newspaper, no matter how offensive the hour, for a bit of cheese, for a biscuit and glass of milk. There is no other option. He will never walk again, must be carried to-and-from everywhere, and his once fine silken tail is now a dismembered stump. Alice on occasion wonders if he, like March, might not be going blind. She can never be quite certain if Dormy cannot eat without being fed, cannot read without a voice to pronounce the words aloud, because his eyes have failed him or because he craves her attention. He will let no other touch him; he has a place at the table but never accepts it. His place is in Alice’s lap, being fed from her hand, with his little claws digging into her skin. What began as red welts have since matured into a spattering of tiny scars across her shoulders and into the dip of her bosom. The marks established themselves through her clothing; now, with her own hands tailoring clothes to bare such aspects of her person, there is no disguising the evidence.

She isn’t ashamed. Of her body. Of her scars. The asylum took away her childhood and destroyed her awareness of propriety. She as sane as she will ever be and still utterly mad. She knows this and wears it as proudly as she wears evidence of the way Dormy loves her, clings to her, depends on her, and equally hates her for the memories she represents.

The scars are manifestations of his hate. The way he brushes his nose to every new one is a silent declaration of love; a silent imploration that this new mark might not be the one to earn his exile from her presence.


	2. No Method in this Madness

There was a time when she referred to the Queen by appropriate title, giving her deference which may or may not have been her due. But now, and forever more, she shall only be Lizzie in Alice’s mind. Dear sweet Lizzie who survived the fire in memory and now breathes the same air as Alice herself.

As quiet after life as she was before, Lizzie keeps her affairs without incident. The upper level of the house is her realm, shared only by Alice’s bedroom. Her favorite place is at the window, where she surveys the world outside. These dull grey skies are no match for Wonderland’s blue heavens and cloudless realm, but the mushrooms and flowers standing lush and tall, bursts of color between London’s lifeless architectures, among the street corners and protruding from random windows, speak of home.

And of course, this place _is_ home. All of it. The kingdom is under construction, but is still very much in need of a ruler.

“Tell me again, Alice.” Her hair is longer, longer than it ever was before, and rare is the night when Lizzie does not take great enjoyment in the process of carding fingers through the inky mass. Everything about her is exaggerated, of course, save the lull to her voice. Once prone to shrieking outbursts in the height of deranged thought, she now speaks with a whisper, “Tell me how you slayed the Ruin.”

It is a favorite story, told a hundred-times over by now. Perhaps Lizzie can never tire of hearing it. Perhaps she does not remember. The mind, after all, is a fluid thing: like water, it comes and goes.

Alice humors Lizzie without complaint. She tells the story each time, a hundred times over and a hundred times more, as if it is the first. Her memory, her mind, is a stream rolling over pebbles and rocks without haste and without direction. She finds it a relief to let her thoughts have run of the space in her head. Attempting to control them required far too much effort.

“Tell me what you felt.” Lizzie entwines the strands into a braid: a long intricate rope hanging down Alice’s back like the hangman’s noose.

“Nothing.” The word glides smooth as glass off her tongue, “I watched him fall. I heard the crack of his bones. The way his flesh ripped apart under the train.” Lizzie glides fingers down one shoulder in a lazy caress, “Sometimes I lie awake at night and think about it. After all, they found part of him, but not all. They’ll never find all. The rest is festering on the tracks: mangled and rotting under the gears in a mechanical prison from which he will never fully escape.”

“Be kinder to your thoughts.” Lizzie kisses her dark crown: red lips, cold mouth, “They deserve better substance.”

Alice only smiles. There will always be one thought destined to suffer her recycled imagination.


	3. Illusions, too, die hard

Logically, there is much truth to the presence of Damage in this new territory, or at the very least Madness would not be falsely accused of having run of the place. But Alice has made her peace with anything Damage might have touched, and Madness is so close an acquaintance that she leaves a light on every night, just in case it thinks to stop by for a late chat.

And on the subject of lights – that is to say, lights in the window: the windows in question number few but do a fine job of fulfilling purpose. The flat which Alice has claimed as her own might very well be in an unfortunate part of town, but with dismal reputation comes the assurance of privacy. She is not the sort to invite neighbors, for that lot always brings their own dull affairs and bothersome opinions. The latest gossip ‘round town says she, Alice Liddell, former lunatic, is put up in the shambles and running some house of ill repute.

The house is indeed shambles, but she barely notices. A crack in the wall or a badly patched hole in the roof is all the same tidbit of accented imperfection to her.

More than once, a phantom face appears from a life she once led but now only half-remembers. They come and go. Most go shortly after they come. Mister Radcliffe, in particular, loses what color he has in his pasty face upon being greeted at the door not only by Alice but also Cat loitering in her shadow. The cat remains a blasted annoyance on the worst days and a tolerable hinderance on the rest, but he serves purpose with a mouth much too wide and teeth unmistakably splattered with ageless blood. No doubt calling on Alice to hoist absurd accusations or make other such flummery, Mister Radcliffe is off her stoop nearly in the same step with which he first mounted it.

Others are not so easily offended.

“Is he a friendly sort, then?” Nanny asks. It’s a rather stormy day outside, which simply mandates tea and biscuits and a warm fire in the hearth. It pleases Alice, for herself, when the sight of flames dancing about in their stone hearth does not alarm but simply provides a source of warmth to chase out the bitter cold.

Cat, for all else he might be, is still very much of the feline persuasion. Nowhere is this more evident than the way he is presently coiling his lanky form about Alice’s legs and butting her thigh with one side of his face. “When the mood strikes him.” Alice answers in a calm fashion, “Of course, you’ll do well to ask permission before exploring that option. He’s quite on manners, you see, except when it comes to using them himself.”

Nanny is, and always has been, a much better sort than the useless bit of senile blubber that is Mister Radcliffe. She barely bats an eye at the notion of a grinning cat who insists upon proper form and instead proffers her hand with a very polite inquiry. Cat eyes her large palm with a playful glint in his eyes, but seems content to behave himself today. His head pushes under Nanny’s hand and purrs at the attention paid to his ears.

“Poor creature.” Nanny clucks her tongue, “Half-starved, he is.”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t put on much weight.”

“Does he not eat?”

“Only when he has the desire for it.” Alice watches as Cat takes his fill of one source of attention, then slinks back to demand the same from her. She obliges with a long card of fingernails down the ridged column of his neck, “You can hardly make up his mind for him, after all. In the end, he merely has to will himself away from the matter and that is very much that.”

“Have you not given him a proper name yet, Alice?”

“What is the use in naming a creature who can’t be bothered to come when you call it?” Cat flicks his tail at her ankle, “Seems a terrible waste of what might be a decent name. Rather, you ought to give such a name to one who deserves it and might actually use it on frequent occasion.”

The logic seems to make perfect sense to Nanny, and they say no more of the subject.

It’s the strangest thing, really, that at their next encounter – when Alice makes idle mention – Nanny doesn’t remember a word of it.


	4. Not So Either Or

Carpenter hangs his hat (that is to say, if he had one) in a small flat adjacent to her own. He needs more space to do his work, and from the noises Alice hears at all hours, he is doing quite a bit of it these days. Ordinarily, she might go so far as to call him offensively loud, a shameless disturber of sleep, but Alice sleeps very little and no one else makes a complaint.

Well, Hatter does. But Hatter complains about everything. One simply learns to ignore him.

Alice comes to him in the late hours when sleep evades her and little Dormy has finally captured a moment or two of rest. Always she finds him awake. Some nights he stares out the window, looking out to the harbor where Walrus is doubtless feasting himself silly. Others, he’s lost to his work and can’t be bothered to notice her until she either clears her throat loudly enough or drops a screwdriver on his head.

Tonight, such theatrics are unnecessary. Carpenter sits at his table, a single candle lit, with his fingers tap-tap-tapping in no particular order. Outside, rain pounds mercilessly at the windows. The domicile not being of spectacular form, it is Carpenter’s own handiwork which will keep the storm outside and not seeping through cracked walls and splits in the roof.

He glances up when the door closes behind her. Amusement glimmers across his dark eyes.

“The white, however angelic in intentionality, does you no fitting of justice, my dear.” His hand makes a short gesture towards the colorless drape of her nightgown, “Red, on the other hand, would prove far more illustrious to not only your figure but also to your repudiation.”

“Perhaps,” her fingers, with nimble skill, address buttons until the pale fabric pools loose at her shoulders, “but there is another alternative.”

Thin in form as she ever has been, and likely will always be, the dress slides like an old skin from her body to the floor. “Indeed there is.” Carpenter answers; a showman at heart, wearing the moment’s emotion on his naked sleeve is simply second-nature. She sees it in the way his pupils dilate; hears it in the throaty rasp of his voice, “Come here, Alice.”

Her hand rests in his extended palm. She recalls these same hands – perhaps even the exact same one as that which currently engulfs her own – pushing her from certain death at his expense. There are no true heroes in Wonderland, but if Carpenter ever came close to being one, it was in that moment. She’s never forgotten it.

He draws her into his arms without prelude. She surrenders her mouth as easily as she does her body. In destroying her concept of propriety, the asylum also took away any ability she had to be ashamed of sexuality. She knows she is young and mad, but she is also beautiful. More beautiful in her own skin than pale women in whale bone and starched petticoats, high collars and extended sleeves hiding their bodies. They duck their heads in shame and keep their clothes on in the bedroom to satisfy a husband’s private affairs.

Alice knows no such shame for her desires. She will never be married, for no respectable husband wants a bride with such the stain of madness, and she has no desire for a shackle around her finger to steal her family name. She will remain the last Liddell, forever associate the name with destruction and insanity, and spare no thought for London’s opinion of her. She takes Carpenter as a lover because she wants to, because his body fits to hers as if it was always meant this way. He tears through her final burden of innocence – her last thread tying her to a world she is happiest to forget. In this final act, Carpenter claims her for himself…and for Wonderland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who took the time to read this - it means so much. _Ciao_!


End file.
